Darker Still Read Online Free Page B

were beautifully composed, as one would expect in the perfection of a dark seraphim. Tiny traces between his nose and the corners of his pursed and perfect lips indicated that his mouth would grow lines of an often wide smile as he aged. But no such trace of gladness could be seen in his portrait’s expression. His lips were set in a stern expression of young defiance, his perfect nostrils flared.
    His suit was fine and charcoal gray, something perhaps for sporting or hunt, something masculine but youthful and unpretentious. He was posed in a study filled with books and well-appointed items: a desk stacked with fresh paper and a blotter, fountain pens and golden trinkets of measure and study, and a high-backed chair before a fireplace bedecked with treasures from around the world.
    A verdant pastoral scene could be glimpsed out the bay window, his Greenwich estate, surely. Everything about the painting drew me in. Perhaps it was haunted after all—the life in those eyes…the slight chill that I couldn’t quite shake. The flare of his nostrils was that of an animal smelling blood.
    Mrs. Northe leaned in to murmur, not wishing to distract me from his gaze. “A shame. Such a handsome youth to be lost at eighteen.”
    “Heartbreaking,” Maggie sighed.
    I could only nod, though I couldn’t help feeling that Denbury wasn’t really gone. He was so unbelievably present. As Mrs. Northe had alluded, some part of that man’s soul was surely in the room with us.
    A gangly, sharp-nosed man with an affable smile poked his head around the corner.
    “Why, my dear Mrs. Northe and Miss Hathorn, you didn’t mention you’d be stopping by again so soon.”
    Mrs. Northe gestured at the painting. “He’s hard to resist. I had to bring Miss Natalie Stewart by to see him. You know Gareth Stewart of the Metropolitan? This is his daughter.” Mrs. Northe turned and signed his name to me—Mr. Sullivan—before he could say anything. I took the cue and inclined my head in greeting.
    Mr. Sullivan stared at us, confused by Mrs. Northe’s gesticulations. I was quite used to that response. Lest he make some social mistake, he ignored the exchange entirely, inclined his head to me, and turned back to Mrs. Northe with pressing urgency, his affable smile fading.
    “May I have a word with you alone? About the buyers.”
    “Ah. Yes. And?”
    Mr. Sullivan glanced over at me nervously. I smiled a bit too broadly, as if the lamps weren’t quite on in my attic. It couldn’t hurt to appear nonthreatening in this case, considering that Denbury seemed to make most people nervous.
    Mr. Sullivan continued with hesitancy, holding out a paper. “Shall we discuss it somewhere apart from the young ladies?”
    “Oh, it’s all right. Miss Stewart can’t hear a thing you say, and I daresay Maggie here has demanded I share every particular of her beau,” Mrs. Northe said, winking so that only I could see. Maggie sighed at the word “beau.” Mrs. Northe turned back to Mr. Sullivan, and I continued to stare at the painting as if I hadn’t heard a word. “You go right ahead, Mr. Sullivan. What’s odd about the list?”
    I could feel Mr. Sullivan glancing at me, embarrassed. “Oh, poor dear,” he said, offering me that all too familiar pitying look. “All right then. Just look at the list of buyers here.”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the color slip from Mrs. Northe’s face as she perused the list. To have somehow earned her confidence like this was a great honor. I pledged to do my best to deserve it.
    “Good God, Mortimer,” Mrs. Northe gasped, letting slip his familiar name. She was on a decidedly familiar standing with nearly everyone involved in this operation. Including now my father. Hopefully that would bode well for Lord Denbury.
    “I was just thinking of these, dare I say, gentlemen ,” she said in dismay. “These men are all…”
    “Spiritualists. I know. Isn’t that odd?”
    Maggie was instantly alert, her nostrils